


Sublime

by FievreAlgide



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 06:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FievreAlgide/pseuds/FievreAlgide
Summary: Saint-Just invited Robespierre to his apartment. As he waits for him, he strikes a pose on his sofa, and has steamy thoughts - though he's clearly overthinking it. (Old fic repost.)
Relationships: Maximilien Robespierre/Louis Antoine de Saint-Just
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26
Collections: Fleeting and Frivolous Mundane Moments in the Life of Two Otherwise Very Serious Revolutionaries





	Sublime

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LiveJournal on May 15 2009.

Saint-Just stretched his legs on the sofa, not quite knowing how to place his feet anymore: one was resting on the arm, the other hung loose by the side. No; the sight may look too debauched, Saint-Just then considered. He brought his left foot on the sofa again, placing it so that the angle of his thighs became less... revealing and more... comfortable.

There seemed to be less... space in his breeches. He slid a hand downwards, reaching his crotch, feeling the shape of his member, hardly pressed against his thigh and urging to be released. The man smacked his lips and shut his eyes as two fingertips cautiously explored the length through the fabric. It twitched. Saint-Just shivered. He was sure he would tremble before this was over. But he removed his hand: he would wait for Maxime. How long had he been waiting for him? Not so long, yet he was already so hard. Because he knew what he must have been looking like: his legs spread, inviting, his shirt partially pulled out of his breeches to reveal the skin of his loins, his waistcoat undone and opened, his cravat gone and his hair cascading on the cushioned seat. He looked debauched, that was the truth, and he knew the flush that would colour his cheeks once Maxime knocked at the door would confirm this appearance even more. 

He didn't know how to justify it. How would he justify it to Maxime? He couldn't think of an answer. He only hoped that the sight would be breathtaking enough to smother all questions. So he stared up at the ceiling of his apartment and waited.

A knock. Saint-Just startled, his heart racing. "Who is it?" He shouted with a controlled voice.

"It's me," the thin voice of Maximilien came through the door.

"Wait," Saint-Just shouted again, practising the pose. He made sure everything was perfect before he seized between two fingers the quill he had left on the floor next to a few disorderly papers on which he had -- _actually_ \-- worked on an hour before. He was too theatrical, he scorned himself. "Come in."

He watched the door opening and held his breath until he met his friend's eyes. Which he finally did.

Maximilien dropped his portfolio and didn't seem to care that it opened and that his papers were now everywhere on the floor around him. His arms hung loose by his sides, just like his mouth remained slightly opened, and he had to blink a few times before he was sure of what -- and who -- he was seeing. He squinted.

"Maxime, just put your glasses on," Saint-Just smiled. "And please shut the door."


End file.
